The Glint of their Gold has Gone

 

The Glint of their Gold has Gone

The dull lustre of Russian gold, now cursed forever, in misery remains,

Haunted by the restless spirits, of the tortured, their suffering and pain.

Someone’s jewellery, that was stolen at gunpoint, by murderous thieves,

Beware of the shadow it casts, the terrible stigma, its suffering leaves.

Precious belongings, impregnated with ill fortune, of blood-stained loot,

Plundered from the dead, its dreadful provenance, a matter of dispute.

Tainted and tarnished, let the recipient beware, of misfortune it brings,

The terrible thought, that it came, from melted down watches, and rings.

Silver and gold, mined in dark cellars, and makeshift chambers of death,

From poor victims, who had been tortured, and robbed of their breath.

Dead women, and elderly, getting their gold and silver teeth wrenched,

So, a brutish lust, for perverse pleasure, and treasure could be quenched.

Don’t touch the ill-gotten Russian gold, with its unsavoury providence,

The soiled treasure that points, to the indisputable mountain of evidence.

It is bound to bring bad luck, with the wicked spells, that it now holds,

And sure to be cursed, and haunted, by the innocent lives that it sold.

As the ruthless soldiers, executed their brutal acts, time and time again,

Russian silver and gold now signify, the sadness wrought, upon Ukraine.

In the Bloody Brine of Sacrifice

 

In the Bloody Brine of Sacrifice

The ethnic minorities, are being mobilized, taken at gun point in the street,

Bound into servitude, by Putin’s empty promises, his lies and devilish deceit.

Poor young lads, who will never live to understand, the point of Putin’s war,

The reasons why their lives mean nothing, or what they’re really fighting for.

Pressganged into Putin’s rag tag army, of poor beggars, and arrant thieves,

Deemed worthless pawns, to be shattered and blown, like autumns leaves.

Cast into the frontlines, where there’ll be no returns, from this bloody war,

To pay the ultimate price, of Putin’s errant dreams, within his wicked slaw.

The generals have been instructed, there will be no retreat, or turning back,

To hold on to the last man, no matter what happens, to endure any attack.

The cannon fodder doesn’t stand a chance, there’s nowhere for them to go,

Their days are numbered, we have been told, “They haven’t got a shitshow.”

The new recruits are untrained, and they don’t know how to handle a gun,

Their chances are grim, the odds are slim, and they are sure to be overrun.

The tangled mess, of bodies torn apart, and broken tanks, is a grisly brew.

Its: Situation Normal, All Fouled Up; Or other words to that effect, SNAFU,

The boys are bound to return in body bags, or badly wounded, missing parts,

To join the throngs back home, united in desolation, with badly broken hearts.

As a terrorist state, which will exist for ages, within the depression of disdain,

And Ukraine will wear the hero’s heart, Glory to the Heroes! Glory to Ukraine!

Unearthing the Dead an Ugly Sight to See

 

Unearthing the Dead an Ugly Sight to See

Cautiously treading, within dried bloody trails, that are better not walked,

Subjected to the brutal sights hidden, of blunt trauma, better not talked!

Mass graves, warily excavated, sodden soil sifted, with shovels and spades,

Unearthing the truth, of the odious crimes, exposing bodies, badly decayed.

As the survivors, unwillingly exhumed, terrible acts, of genocide wrought,

Their minds were left languishing, down in ghastly dimensions of thought.

Unable to quell, the pungent smells, and the feelings, of gut-wrenching pain,

As the recuring visions, of victims unearthed, generated repugnance again.

The awful shock, deeply entrenched, tainting their thoughts, sadly measured,

With brave souls, badly distorted, their emotions wrung, and severely severed.

Stressed minds stunned, with utter disgust, heads haunted beyond measure,

Heavy hearts badly tortured, by the sights seen, now souls tormented forever!

The Unforgiving Piece of Work He Paints Upon the Earth

 

The Unforgiving Piece of Work He Paints Upon the Earth

Hark, the Kremlin’s bloody call, right on their threshold, a call too close to home,

While Putin now burdens, the Russian people with blame, to face the world alone.

For, he vainly attempts, to rebuild by force, the once Imperial Russian Empire of old,

Dreaming of acquiring great power, conspiring to create a personal fortune in gold.

Now tens of thousands, have been killed, and Putin’s sending out, the plea for more,

To the next waves, of boy soldiers, youngsters bound, for his heartless grip on war.

Even though one day, Putin will surely feel, the full fury, of the Russian people’s scorn,

He has started buying his soldiers, from poor mothers, well before they’ve been born.

He is bribing the peasant mums, to sell, their unborn babies’ souls, for a poultry cost,

Yes, counting his boy soldiers, before they’ve dropped, knowing their lives are lost.

Before they leave, the safety of the womb, they’re the property, of his sinful state,

As children, their young minds, will be groomed, on false pretexts, and blind hate.

And the daughters, of the state, will be vessels used, to carry on, his reckless dreams,

Their sons, will in turn, become soldiers of the state, supplying the bloody streams.

In cold comfort, behind lavish palace walls, Putin warily watches, the valley of death,

Transforming, Ukraine’s yellow peace flowers, into medals of grief, leaving people bereft.

Now the blood of Satan, is on his hands, and the burden, the weight of all the dead,

He continues his quest, contented to wear, the sallow golden crown, upon his head.

With mounting shame, born upon his foul wind, and the bitterness he has brought,

Contented, with the withered fields, of dead yellow flowers, that he has wrought.

Its time, for the mothers of the world to unite, to sanctify, the young lives they bring,

To stand against, the surrogate sins of men, to safeguard their vulnerable offspring.

To protect kids’ lives, and the lore of life, to lay men’s pointless hatred in the past,

To create a better world for their children, and heed the call, to bravely stand fast.

Render Down unto Thee the Eternal Path You Take

 

Render Down unto Thee the Eternal Path You Take

Once true heroes, uttered with unpolluted breath, the solemn truth, so fervently sought,

Beyond the realm of lies, to eternity, where they escaped, the tangled web distraught.

Now with divine wisdom lost, so soundly resting, beneath the multitude, of stars each night,

It’s rigor’s long shadow cast, from the forgotten soldier’s stones, time weary, from life’s light.

Time now wrought, by wild seasons, and the passing sun, with celestial lines, daily lit between,

And the once promised, plot of land, now covered in wildflowers, and grasses really green.

Bones resting within the madness, where bodies have rendered down, destinies unforeseen,

Right there, where restless spirits fell, in gallant sacrifice, by selfless actions, seldom seen.

And many more hearts, were transformed, by the power of Satan, as Putin called for more,

With minds too blind to realise, the desire for more, was much less, when it came to war!

As their wills were wrought, by the turmoil in their hearts, in battles that couldn’t be won,

With souls scorched, in the fires of fury, then in anger, submitting to blind hatred overrun.

Never to repent, their ungodly sins, as goodness was lost, amongst the eternally damned,

And the lives they lost in vain, the blush of blood they shed, was roughly cast upon the land.

Departing from the trail of grief, that homeward bound, left their loved ones, in its wake,

Venturing onward, into the dark eternal path, that their lost spirits, were compelled to take.

In profound sadness, where tears turned to mist, on the river Acheron, aboard Hermes ship,

Forever lost, their souls never to return, to taste life’s steadfast love, sown upon a tender lip.

There’s Wisdom in the Word

 

There’s Wisdom in the Word

While the efforts, to appease, common sense, have all fallen on deaf ears,

He continues, to fan the flames of wrath, against the awful flood of tears.

He’s turned his back, on the wisdom of the past, let caution to the wind,

Committed awful crimes, taken countless lives, in acts, he cannot rescind.

They say that the fool, is the first, to cast the stone, I guess, that it is true,

And now, that he’s cast, a mountain of stones, so much, has gone askew.

His train, has gained, great momentum, we know, he’s on, the wrong track,

But he believes, losing, is a sign of weakness, so he won’t, be turning back.

And the wicked threshold, that he has crossed, will end, in eternal pain,

But he delights in the wind, he has sown, for its reaped, a mighty hurricane.

Now casting, the destructive seeds, shall earn, the immortal wrath, of God,

Perhaps, the eternal flames, of penance, or a sudden jolt, a lightning rod.

And like, the reckless romantics, who love to sow, the evil visions of hatred,

One day, his brutal fantasies, will turn to fairy dust, inside his twisted head.

But the cogs, seem to be grinding slowly, while all the nations, reach accord,

For now, the world is anxiously waiting, for Vladimir, to fall upon his sword!

His Heart is Rotten to the Core

 

His Heart is Rotten to the Core

His comrades writhe, while they are bound, to believe, their emperor’s lies,

As he refuses, to see, beyond the glint of gold, firmly fixed, within his eyes.

While in exclusive solitude, he lives the life, of the poor people’s stolen dreams,

Eating the finest foods, with exquisite wines, deemed fit, for kings and queens.

Hiding behind, his gold crested, wrought iron gates, and solid entrance doors,

In his grand palace, of marble slabs, with towering arches, and mosaic floors.

Living like a star, in his grand imperial palace, bought on the blood of others,

Let by the heartache, sorrow, grief, and the suffering, of his surrogate mothers.

Safe, from all the wasted lives, he’s had taken, and all, the poor souls, he’s sold,

As he dreams, of having great wealth, and power, and the Midas touch of old,

Each day in Ukraine, time and again, the golden sun reveals, his damage done,

By his tanks, jets, ships, bombs, missiles, mortar, incendiary and gigantic guns.

In cities, the haunting ruins, a painful reminder, of memories that won’t leave,

A recuring woe, that wells inside, while heart-breaking images, so sadly weave.

In ignorance, the pointless quest, to rid the Ukrainian people, from their land,

The unwelcome stain of blood, of souls set free, the invaders eternally damned.

Damn the ruthless army, that raised a multitude of villages, towns, and cities,

Leaving such unsightly scenes, of streets strewn, with badly mutilated bodies.

And Putin’s scorched earth policy, a pointless pursuit, to turn the nation black,

Soon, the time will come, the tide will turn, his brutal army, will be beaten back.

And the hordes of orcs, unwelcome adversaries, will retreat, homeward bound,

Leaving lonely graves, and the blood, of their innocent victims, on the ground.

Then the boot, will be on the other foot, Tsar Putin’s prospects, will be really bleak,

And Russia’s Kremlin, will have to account, to pay, for the havoc, it has wreaked.